The poor lad that had killed the bailiff cast himself on his face, at this, and wept, and his little sister also. And all those others did what they might to comfort him, with:—
“Ho, man! leave off tears; 't was bravely done!” and “Never grieve for a black heart!‘ and ’A pox o' bailiffs!”
The horn they handled greedily, counting the linked jewels in the chain and the pearls that were set about the image of the white hart. Calote kept it in a little bag that she had made of a bit of blanket the peddler gave her. This she wore by a string about her middle, and drew forth the horn willingly when they called for it. She was not aware how they coveted it, nor wherefore; but the peddler knew. He heard them when they sat about the fire of nights, after the women were gone to sleep. He listened the while they wrangled of the pearls. One said there were thirty, another swore by Saint Christopher there were but five and twenty.
“S-seven and twenty,” quoth the peddler; “I-I-I counted.”
They turned and looked on him. There were three awake, the beggar, a villein, and the youngest soldier. They called the villein Symme Tipuppe, and the soldier Nicholas Bendebowe; the beggar was only Haukyn.
Quoth Haukyn to the peddler: “Art thou kin to the maid?”
“N-nay,” said the peddler, “we met by the r-road.”
“Tell me,” said Symme, leaning forward. “Thou 'rt a kind of merchant, is the horn silver, or some baser metal?”
“T-t-true silver,” answered the peddler, and Nicholas Bendebowe, looking on Symme, set his thumb to his nose and wagged his fingers, with “Said I not so? I saw jewels in France, yea, and handled them.”
“'T would bring a pretty penny if 't were sold?” Symme questioned.